Get Hurt
by Racquet
Summary: He wasn't sure what he was doing, what he was going to do when he got where he was going. It hadn't even seemed like a good idea when he left New York, and the miles on the road certainly wasn't changing that notion. Sequel to You Found Me.


**A/N:** I, apparently, am alive. And Writing. Though I promise nothing, and I'm a bit rusty. Also, this is a sequel to You Found Me. Or you can read it stand alone.

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><p><em>Sometimes I wake up in the mornin'<em>

_Sometimes I dream some more_

_I keep my wounds without a bandage, baby_

_As I come stumblin' through the door_

He couldn't tell from the sounds coming through the window whether it was eight in the morning or four in the afternoon. What he could tell, without opening his eyes, was that there was a warm body in his bed, and vomit somewhere in the room. He couldn't decide which was less appealing to him, though at least the vomit wouldn't get upset or throw things when he threw it away. Not that he cared one way or the other about the girl who didn't abide by the unwritten code of one night stands, the part where you don't stay. The part where you leave before you fall asleep, because don't you think if he actually wanted you, was really interested in you, he'd have at least offered to learn your name while he was pounding you like a five dollar whore? He much preferred to nurse hangovers alone, more preferably still, he preferred to nurse them with more vodka.

Now came the worst part, the part where you open your eyes and the room starts to spin, and your stomach starts to churn, and for not the first time in any given 24 hour period, death seems like a halfway decent option. Fortunately you can fix that feeling. Or so far he had. It's amazing what money can buy. Booze and drugs and friends, more of each than he could ever need in this lifetime. But he guessed that's why there were friends. To share in the trials and tribulations, which is to say they would fix your jonesing and hand you another bottle when the sadness of sobriety threatened to take hold. You know, the real upstanding type of friends.

The slow building itch in his arm reminded him that it was not just the constant nagging of his manager that he was slave to anymore. Not bothering to leave her with any comfort, he swung his feet onto the floor, taking the warm blanket with him before pausing long enough to steady his head in his hands and slowly standing up, measuring the response of his stomach and letting it weigh the pros and cons of a mad dash to the bathroom toilet. Not that the tipping of the scales made any difference as he bent at the waist and let the heaves take over. There wasn't much left anyway, he assumed most of the alcohol was elsewhere in the room, and it's not as if sustenance was very high on his priority list as of late. When the heaving subsided he brought the blanket to his lips and headed for the door.

_I think I'm gonna move to California_

_Momma can you say a prayer for me?_

_I heard they don't get so lowdown_

_I heard they never bleed_

_Not like we bleed_

He wasn't sure what he was doing, what he was going to do when he got where he was going. It hadn't even seemed like a good idea when he left New York, and the miles on the road certainly wasn't changing that notion. He hadn't taken a drink in almost fourteen hours. He was sure that was some kind of record. The bump he'd taken at the last rest stop was starting to wear off, and in it's place came the repetition of his last conversation in New York.

"_It's over Jack. The band is taking a break, giving you some time to get your shit together. You guys are getting big, and the crowds care when you come on stage so fucked up that you puke and can't remember half your lines. You can't do that anymore Jack," Mitch's last words came out quietly. "We're sorry. All of us. But you need help. You have to clean yourself up, or you are going to end up dead."_

And Mitch had, in fact, seemed sorry. But sorry didn't change the fact that he was being kicked off the tour, kicked out of the apartment they shared, and kicked out of the life he had become so accustomed to. Was it not supposed to be the other way around? Didn't more money bring more power, more control over your life? He had sure thought so, and he had been very fucking wrong.

_And it gets pretty late_

_And the stations will change_

_And the things once in order_

_Now seem so strange_

And as the miles rolled along he could feel the stench and the feeling of New York, of his life there, peeling away. Peeling away like a sunburn, revealing the raw, aching flesh underneath. And he found himself thinking of Evelyn. The woman that had taken him in and raised him as her own.

Growing up they were a Family, capital F Evelyn used to say. When she would tell them they had one up on all the other families, seeing as they got to pick theirs. But the truth, what she didn't tell them, is that she chose them for her. She was the glue. She was what held them together, kept them from crumbling. And then, like one big comical game of Jenga, she was gone, and everything that was left behind, everything they were, was reduced to an incomprehensible pile of rubble. A pile that he had tried to sweep away, under the rug, far from any feelings or thoughts that could stick around and hurt him.

Most of all he stayed away from that little house in one of the worst neighborhoods in Detroit, that house that had been home.

_I came to get hurt_

_Might as well do your worst to me_

_Have you come here to get hurt?_

_Have you come to take away from me?_

_Might as well do your worst to me._

And so when he pulling up to that house. The one that held more memories than he knew what to do with, more memories than he could afford to feel. And so he tried not to. He turned off the lights and the engine, and sat frozen in the comfortable leather of his expensive SUV. And for the first time in a very, very long while, Jack felt something. He could feel it start in the pit of his stomach. It crept out through his veins and into his palms. It climbed up his throat and into his mouth, filling it with the vile taste of years-old emotion. He had been fine. Maybe not fine, but surviving. He didn't know why he was here, and the pressure that kept building in his head started to seep. It came out in big, heaving breaths. He opened his mouth and it spilled out like a dam breaking. Holding it back was impossible. It demanded to be heard, and heard it was.

When he first heard the noise he wasn't even sure that it was coming from him. He couldn't help but find the humor in the clichéd idea that it sounded like a wounded animal, waiting for some good samaritan to come along and put it out of its misery. The thought struck him as funny, and the moans turned into a mixture of hysterical laughter and gut-wrenching sobs. He couldn't stop them, couldn't stem the flow. Covering his mouth with frozen fingers, he bit into flesh, willing everything to stop. Instead he just felt the copper-laden taste of blood, and rested his forehead against the cold wheel, waiting for the gasping sobs to subside.

Jack failed to notice the dull porch light flicker on, and missed the creak of the front door. The hammering of a heavy fist against the window of his vehicle, however, was not an option. It also was not something that he was expecting, and he jumped at the sound. And there he was, the man he had driven hundreds of miles to see. He hadn't the slightest clue why, especially after their last anger-filled meeting, he had felt the pull to come back here. And as his gaze rose, and met those deep brown eyes, he was even less sure that this had been a good idea. Instead of relief, he only felt anger welling in his stomach, mixing with the hurt, snowballing and swelling as he watched the other man's eyes taking him in.

"Jack..." Bobby's words were slow, searching. "...what..."

But he didn't have an answer, any of the answers. He didn't know why he was here, he didn't know what happened. There was nothing that he could think to say that would be of any worth. The feeling of his teeth biting into the soft flesh of his lips kept the angry words at bay. He was certain that if he opened his mouth, words he would regret tomorrow would come spilling out, and he was so tired of yelling, of fighting, of everything. And so instead he simply shook his head. And once he started, he wasn't sure he could stop and so he just sat there, comically, with his hands over his mouth, eyes wet with tears, and shaking his head like it might somehow make everything go away. Like a toddler who didn't want to give up the gum he had stolen.

– – –

And Bobby stood there, outside of the car, and watched his brother fall apart. Watched the heave of his shoulders, listened to the loud gasps that came after, and couldn't help but feel that there was so much more than a car door resting between them.

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><p><strong>AN:** So there it is, my big comeback. I don't love it. But it's writing. And no, I'm not mean enough to say that this is the end. The third section of the trilogy (look at me, a trilogy!) should be up, hopefully, this weekend. It's mostly done, and it's Bobby POV. If you're nice and leave me a review, I might even add dialogue next time.

Anywho, thanks for reading.


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